The Art of Remembering
by Midnight-hunter
Summary: Jowd painted all the faces he didn't want to forget...but some things are better left to the past...a Jowd/Cabanela fic.


A/N: Yay, my first Ghost Trick fic! I have been scouring the internet ever since I got into this fandom looking for Jowd/Cabanela fic, and since I couldn't find any, I decided to write one! This fic was a birthday present for my friend and fellow author Tarma Hartley, along with the game itself, and with her permission I am now sharing it with you! As always, constructive criticism is appreciated, and I hope you enjoy!

Painting faces from memory is a tricky business. The smallest details can turn a work of art into an unmitigated disaster; it took me eight canvases to bring out the shine in Lynne's eyes, three to shape my daughter's button nose. There were many faces that, try as I might, I had to leave somewhat imperfect; people that, for whatever reason, I couldn't quite conjure when I closed my eyes. This inability to remember angered me deeply and only fueled the self-hatred I had carted around for five years. After all, these were people I admired and cared about, and none of them deserved to be forgotten. And then the day came when I decided to paint you

There was a part of me that hoped you would become another imperfection. It would be nothing less than you deserved, after what you had become. Though I didn't want to forget you completely, I wanted some sort of reassurance that you weren't as important to me as you had been in the past, so I could finally let you go, and settle into despising you comfortably. But I should have known better, and as soon as I felt the now familiar weight of the brush in my hand I realized what a lost cause trying to hate you was, and always has been.

I painted your image like a man possessed; there were no second-guesses as the brush revealed the line of your jaw, and the way your lips curved when they smiled. Without a second glance I dipped into the pots of paint to color in the chocolate brown of your hair, then into the same pot to bring out your eyes. The brush made them warm and inviting….as they always were when you smiled; a small detail that I hadn't even realized I knew before I began capturing you on my canvas. Washing the brush off, I carefully filled in the streak of gray in your hair. I had teased you about that, a sure sign that you were getting old before your time, but you regarded it with the brand of philosophical cheerfulness that you became so well known for.

The time wore on, and I just kept painting, each stroke uncovering memories that I had tried so hard to forget, if only because it hurt too much to remember them. I finally stepped back, tears in my eyes, and only then did I realize that I had began this painting, inadvertently, to be a full-length portrait. Whereas all the ones before had been from the torso up, I had started you at the very top of the canvas, and painted you in the scale of a full-body depiction. It had been completely unintentional, but as soon as this fact became clear to me, I went right back to work, my heart pounding against my rib cage so hard that it bordered on the painful.

Setting aside the paintbrush, I instead picked up the drawing pencil, leaning in close to the painting. The smell of oil paints still lingered, but when I looked at your picture the memory of your cologne came to mind, as sharp and vivid as if I were holding you in my arms. My hand began to tremble slightly as I lightly sketched the curve of your waist. Your chest and shoulders are somewhat broad, but you have a dancer's build, your waist small and narrow. As I continued to shape you I remembered how my hands sat perfectly on your hips, and how they could practically envelop your entire midsection. My hands always found their way there sooner or later, if only because it was where you loved them best when I was holding you. After that came your hands. Your fingers are long and slender, but deceptively strong, as you are yourself. As they began to appear on the canvas I could feel the gentle brush of them through my hair, and at the same time feel the strong grip as they tightened around my arms, reassuring me that, no matter what horrors we would have to face, we would face them together. That recollection brought a slight twinge of pain along with it, as it was one of the many that was revealed to be a lie. It's one of the reasons I should loathe you, and yet I still can't bring myself to. Once your hands were completed I drew in a deep breath. Getting down on one knee in front of the canvas, I hesitated for a brief moment before lifting my hand and tracing the beginnings of your legs, the final piece of the portrait, and the memories that I had been pushing down for years flooded through me, almost knocking me backwards.

I remember seeing you for the first time; a rookie, just like me, walking through the halls of the station as if it was some sort of sacred place. I knew nothing about you, hadn't even heard your name, and yet I have no doubt that a part of me fell in love with you right at that moment. Unconscious of being watched, you didn't begin your strange, slightly absurd gait that you became famous for, but moved with an effortless grace that few could even begin to try and imitate. I could only stop and watch you as you practically glided through the silent hallway, as my heart thudded against my ribcage and my mouth suddenly went dry. I suppose you must have finally felt my eyes burning a hole into your back, because you spun around with all the style and elegance of a ballroom dancer and locked eyes with me. I felt ridiculous and began to stammer an apology but was cut short when you favored me with a warm smile and walked over to me. I never knew if you were aware of the way I gaped at you, but if you were you hid it well, striking up a conversation with such ease that it felt like we had known each other for years, and were simply being reunited.

I had never known anyone before who could speak volumes by traveling a foot in any one direction, who could express all he was feeling with a walk. So many complained that it was impossible to tell what you were thinking and feeling, but they just weren't looking hard enough. When you were angry, your walk became tense and strained, like a caged tiger. Happiness was expressed with a jaunty little stroll combined with a stride that announced quite clearly that you were ready to take on the world whenever the world was ready for you. After we got together, another perambulation entered your repertoire, one reserved only for me. Your eyes would focus on me, and you would instantly assume a languid gait. You would make your way over to me, every step only serving to make me want you more. It always seemed completely unassuming, but sometimes I would catch the smallest little smile on your face that made me believe otherwise. You certainly used it to your advantage when we were alone. All you needed to do was approach me and by the time you arrived I was all yours. My final recollection as I finished your likeness was having those gorgeous legs wrapped tightly around my waist as we lay together after hours of mutual exploration, feeling as if there was nothing in the world but each other and being perfectly content with that fact, smiling exhausted smiles and murmuring soft words as fingers traced over muscles and scars.

The pencil dropped from my fingers as I buried my head in my hands, the tears flowing uncontrollably, and I realized why I couldn't hate you, couldn't forget you. Through my tears I looked over at the blacked out faces of my wife and daughter. As much as I loved and adored you, I gave up my life with you for them, and I never once regretted it. They were my whole world, but I couldn't allow myself to remember what we had together. It is all part of my punishment for the crime I committed all those years ago, the crime that I can never forgive myself for. And just as part of my punishment was to forget them, so too was remembering you. I could have anticipated the others to turn away from me, but I never could have foreseen that from you. It was the harshest blow that could have been dealt to me, and it broke my heart as much as it angered me. As I turned my gaze back to the painting, the final nail in my coffin was delivered to me; that, no matter what you did, or what you may do, I couldn't regret what we had, nor could I ever stop loving you.

As soon as the picture was complete, I had them take it away; I couldn't bear to look on it anymore. It's been a year since then, and yet I can still see you as clear as day: that warm smile combined with a poise and elegance that can still make my breath catch in my throat. I will continue to remember you, both as you were, and as you are, loving you and hating you in equal measure. Such is my blessing and my curse, and the final part of my penance is that you became both.


End file.
